They're In Love, Where Am I?
by kabensi
Summary: Quinn's secretly moonlighting as a telephone escort when a female caller's particular fantasy suddenly puts her anonymity at risk. How far will she go to protect her reputation? FutureFic. Quinn centric fic with a Faberry focus. IN PROGRESS
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: New project. This is something I have mapped out and I don't have any immediate plans to abandon it. We'll see. It's a little dark, but that's the way I like it._

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><p>Quinn's discovered that this is an ideal time to write out her flashcards. They don't require a lot of attention to make and the only unfortunate side-effect she's discovered is the occasional bizarre recall association that happens when she's taking a test. In a weird way, it actually helps, because the more she thinks about what she was doing while writing out the card, the more information tends to come back to her. It's unorthodox, but it hasn't put a dent in her 4.0 GPA, yet.<p>

She's between callers, right now, though just as she thinks about taking a quick trip to the vending machine down the hall, the indicator flashes on her laptop screen. She picks up her headset and slips it back on, then clicks her mouse to accept the incoming call.

It's all audio, no visual, so her clientele is generally made up of older guys who are more lonely than anything and still cling to some borderline sense of decency when it comes to simulated intimacy. It's not phone sex, at least not according to the employee handbook. She's a virtual escort, someone who's supposed to give the client the company they want for the amount of time they've purchased. She's supposed to do everything but actually simulate sex with them and if she thinks she actually hears someone jerking off on the other end of the line, she's supposed to ignore it, as long as their credit card is good.

"So glad you called, honey. I'm obligated to tell you that the billing begins after the tone, all right?" That's more or less her standard greeting. Sometimes she tries an accent, but that can put people off if they're looking for something specific, so she attempts to be as generic as possible until she can get a feeling for what the client wants.

"I understand," replies a woman's voice.

Interesting. Women aren't entirely absent from her caller base, but they're definitely in the minority.

She verifies the call and there's a two second tone that signals the beginning of paid service. "So, sweetie, why don't you tell me your name?"

"... Katie."

Totally a fake name. Not that she ever expects the names to be real. And at least it's not Spartacus, because that actually happens more often than it should. "Okay, Katie. What is it y-"

"What about you?"

"Hmm?"

"What do I call you?"

"Call me whatever you want." She's close to saying something like, 'it's your money,' but they aren't supposed to remind clients about the fact that they're paying for this.

"I would... prefer it if you told me what I should call you."

_Ah._ "You like to be told what to do, is that it, Katie?"

"Yes. And... you, um, don't have to use... my name. I'd rather you didn't actually."

"Oh, you'd _rather_ I didn't?" She's mocking more than asking, because this call is quickly becoming something of an easy read for her. "Why even bother calling, then? I could be doing something else, right now. Or, god, I could at least be talking to someone more interesting."

There's light breathing on the other end of the line, but no verbal response. That's fine.

"I suppose you're still waiting for me to tell you what to call me. Well, maybe I don't want you to call me anything. Maybe _I'd_ rather you just keep your mouth shut." She pauses again, trying to evaluate the situation and ensure that she has the right angle on what this woman wants. If the other end disconnects, the counter will stop and the program will notify her that the call has ended. But it's still counting billable time.

Finally there's a whisper that says, "Keep going."

Perfect. "I thought I just said I wanted you to _shut up_."

"Sorry."

"Whatever, even your apology is completely pathetic." She has to keep this 'Katie' engaged, though, which means pushing their 'conversation' along. "I guess... I can give you a couple of minutes. But if I feel like you're wasting my time-"

"I- I won't. I swear."

"Yeah, we'll see." There's a beat of silence, then, "Pick a topic, loser, or I'm hanging up."

"What do you look like?"

She doesn't even have to be in character to cue the eyeroll, because she gets this question with just about every single call. "I'm a fucking knockout, what do you think?"

"So, you'd say you're pretty?"

"What part of 'fucking knockout' is eluding you? Or are you lacking capable deduction skills?"

"I was just asking-"

"Well, maybe we should go back to you just shutting up." It's a natural response for her and she quickly realizes that this is only going to in circles but then-

"Maybe you should make me."

"Make you... shut up?" Okay, maybe not circles.

"You seem to think I talk too much."

"You are something of a motormouth." This is entirely untrue, based on the conversation they've had, but this is about selling a fantasy, not dwelling on mundane reality. "So, tell me, Motormouth, do you ever actually put that thing to any other uses?"

"I... would you want me to do something with it?"

"If it keeps me from hearing the ever-irritating sound of your voice, then I definitely want you to do something with it."

"I can- I'll do whatever you want."

"In that case, I would want you to get down on your knees..." This is where the job becomes creative. Especially times like right now, when there isn't even a set scenario in play and she has to improvise. Fortunately, she has a wealth of real life experience that shapes easily into fantasy fodder. "In front of the head cheerleader." She's taking a leap with this, because there's been no basis for this to be a high school setup, but the dynamic's been evident, at least to her. The sharp breath she hears through her headset suggests it was the right choice. "That's what you want, isn't it?"

"... yes."

"And you're going to do exactly what I tell you, right?"

"... uh huh."

"Because, otherwise, you know you'll be getting a face full of slushie when you're not expecting it-"

"Wait, a- Did you say..." The tone from the other end of the line is completely different. There's a long beat and then, "... Quinn?"

The call counter stops and it isn't until she looks down at her hand on the mouse that she realizes she's the one who ended it.

_Shit._

No, there's no way. She must have misheard it. But now that she thinks about it, maybe the voice did sound familiar. Or was that just because she was picturing someone specific for most of the call?

She pulls off the headset and throws it on her desk, scattering her neatly stacked index cards. That's it for tonight. Maybe even this week. She's already met her self-established quota of calls for the month.

It's not even her bread and butter money, it's just something extra to put away for when her student loans are due. OSU may not be Yale, but it still isn't free, even though she did all of her general education at Lima Community College and even with the additional grant money she received and the break in housing she gets for her RA status. Her part-time assistant coaching job in Lima, working with the Cheerios three days a week, pays for her car and other general essentials, like whatever book Beth has her eye on when they make their monthly trip to Barnes and Noble together.

She shoves the chair away from the desk, then wheels herself toward the door, wishing the vending machine dispensed miniature bottles of Smirnoff instead of nearly stale snack food.


	2. Chapter 2

"_You call that a pyramid?_" Quinn's amplified voice echoes off the walls of the gymnasium. "_It's no wonder half of you are failing geometry. Do you even know what shape a pyramid is?"_ She lowers the bullhorn to her lap and waves a tall blonde girl toward her. "Pierce! Get over here!"

Kimberly Pierce is Brittany's little sister and the genetics are evident. The younger Pierce, however, tends to be more grounded in reality than her big sister. She's popular like Brittany was, though, which is how she landed the position of Head Cheerio for the second year running. Quinn likes her, she's known her for years, but she's also trying to shape young athletes into winners.

"What's up, Coach Fab?" Kimberly asks as she runs over to Quinn.

"Kimmy, you need to get a grip on your team. If Coach Sylvester saw this today, you'd all be doing bicycle crunches until you threw up."

"Come on," Kimberly rolls her eyes and whispers, "you totally can't call me that here. That's, like, a kid's name."

"I would be happy to call you Captain Pierce if you," Quinn raises the bullhorn and jabs it at Kimberly's midsection, "get a grip on your squad. They'll listen to you, you just can't take any crap from them." She rolls her chair back to get another look at the group of cheerleaders standing in the middle of the gym. "You can start by telling Hannah Sinclair to start doing laps."

"Okay. Why, though?"

"Find a reason. You're the captain."

"Yeah, sure. She's kind of a bitch, anyway."

"That's the spirit."

"Hannah!" Kimberly shouts. "Laps!"

"Why?" is the response.

"You know why!"

Quinn laughs to herself and maneuvers over to the bleachers where she's left her clipboard and water bottle. While she reviews the conditioning checklist Sue's left for her, she can hear Kimberly telling her Cheerios that they should all just take a lap and "think about the glorious majesty of the Egyptian pyramids." The list hasn't changed much, if at all, in eight years, since the last time Quinn put on the split pleats and polyester panels of the Cheerio uniform. Right now, she's wearing the same colors, but in the form of an Adidas track suit. She likes to think she's made progress and she's definitely gotten out of doing bicycle crunches for the rest of her life.

With the squad under control for the moment, Quinn fishes her phone out of her pocket to check her messages. She has a couple emails and a Facebook message, which is probably Puck, because they're both invited to Beth's ninth birthday party, which still isn't for a couple of weeks, but he apparently has plans to put together "something bomb-ass" for her present and Quinn insisted to be informed on every detail, to make sure it was nothing that involves fire or explosions.

It's not from Puck. It's also not from her sister or any of her Cheerios or even Artie, who occasionally sends her updates from UCLA where he's getting his master's degree in film.

It's from Rachel Berry.

Quinn spent most of last night convincing herself she'd imagined hearing her name, that it was just an association her brain made because of the scenario she'd been describing. The chances of Rachel Berry calling a virtual escort hotline are already slim, but then to be connected at random _to_ Quinn, well that's just pure insanity.

And still, she doesn't want to open the message, because she knows what it will say. It will say "IT WAS ME! :) :) :)" or "so you're in porn now, how is that for you?" or "I know your dirty secret, leave me fifty thousand dollars in a suitcase in Penn Station" or something equally as terrifying. But if she doesn't open it, it's just going to sit there, with the little red notification telling her she has an unread message waiting. Waiting and lurking and ready to expose her to everyone. To her mother. To Shelby. Oh god, if Shelby finds out... fire and explosions will be the least of her concerns.

Maybe she can pay Rachel off. Maybe not fifty grand, but she's been saving up. Maybe she should just read it.

She glances back up at the cheerleaders, who are now gathering back in the center of the gym while Kimberly orders them to do sets of push ups. Her eyes return to the phone and she taps the screen, opening the message.

_Quinn,_

_Had coffee with Blaine the other day. Got to talking about you. Just wanted to say hi and see how you're doing. :)_

_- Rachel_

That's it? Quinn's about a second away from flipping the phone over to see if there's something on the back that she's missing when she realizes she panicked for nothing. It's just a stupid 'thinking of you' message. Rachel leaves her one maybe once a year, usually around this time, because spring equals regionals season, which marks both Beth's birthday, as well as the accident.

She'll reply to it later, when she gets back home to Columbus. It'll be an updated version of the reply she always sends, a basic bullshit recap of her life and how she's doing well and hopes Rachel is, too.

There will be one or two more exchanges and then she won't hear from Rachel until the next spring.

It's fine. It's how high school relationships are supposed to be when you're an adult. A casual reminder that you aren't who you were ten years ago.

Which is funny, because she's still in the McKinley gym while Cheerios sweat through their uniforms until they're about to pass out. It's just now, instead of sweating with them, she's sipping a Smart Water and checking her email.

It's nice to be the grown up.

And, anyway, she was miserable back then, obsessed with finding the right boyfriend and reigning as prom queen. She didn't graduate with any of those things and what would it have mattered, anyway?

At least now she has something real. A decent job and nearly enough credits to get her Physical Education Teacher Education degree so she can become a faculty member. Sue's already laid out the groundwork for her, all she needs to do is graduate from OSU.

She ignores the voice in the back of her head that chants, 'those who can't do... teach' because she knows it's crap and she knows it's one of the stupidest things anyone could have ever said. She knows teachers are strong influences in young lives, she knows how much they meant to her during her high school career. She knows all of it.

It doesn't make it any easier to shake her own self-doubt.


	3. Chapter 3

On the days she coaches the Cheerios, she also has dinner with her mother. This is primarily to appease Judy and keep her from constantly checking up on Quinn when she's in Columbus.

Their time spent together is actually pleasant, at this stage, even if Judy tends to pry in an effort to be protective. But Quinn's asserted her independence as much as she can and Judy has done her best to let her daughter do what needs to be done. There are still conversations, like the one tonight, that drive Quinn crazy.

"Have you thought about where you're living after you graduate?"

It's spring and that won't be happening until she finishes the fall semester, because of the handful of credits she still needs. "I have time to work it out."

"If you need to, you can always move back in h-"

Quinn jabs her fork at a potato. "I know. You said that last week, too."

"I just want you to know you always have a home here."

Her mother's residual guilt over, well, it seems like everything, tends to get on her nerves. She knows Judy means well, but she doesn't want to accept any unnecessary assistance from anyone. Including her mom. "I... Mom, I really appreciate the offer, but I think I just want to find a place myself."

"Will you please, at least, let me look with you, when the time comes?"

"Yes," although the affirmation is presented with a roll of the eyes.

Quinn tries, she really tries to be tolerant of her mother's investment in her life. She just doesn't know if she prefers old borderline absentee Judy, because at least that Judy had a life of her own. The positive side of the New Judy is that she's sober and attentive. But Quinn wonders if her mother is doing anything for herself when she isn't busy worrying about her younger daughter.

"I made pie for dessert." Judy doesn't even ask if Quinn wants any, she just disappears into the kitchen to warm it up. Quinn isn't even finished with her dinner and her mother's already calling out to her, asking if she wants her slice _a la mode_.

In addition her mother's apparent personality transplant, the house is different than it was during her childhood. After the accident, there were several modifications made to allow for accessibility. Quinn's bedroom was moved from upstairs, where it had been since they first moved to Lima, to the downstairs den that used to house Judy's collection of religious figurines.

The china cabinet that sits against the far wall of the dining room isn't the same one Quinn grew up sitting across during Fabray family dinners. A few months into Quinn's recovery, while she was still learning how to navigate the newly added ramps and rails in the house, she misjudged the width of the short ramp that connects the slightly elevated dining room to the living room. The left wheel of her chair slipped over the side and Quinn found herself tumbling face-first onto the carpet. She'd been so angry, she grabbed the first thing in sight, which happened to be Judy's favorite crystal bud vase that always sat on the end table next to the leather arm chair and chucked it as hard as she could in the general direction of the chair. Only she missed and it sailed into the dining room, more specifically, through the glass panes of her mother's antique china cabinet.

Everything shattered.

For a moment, Quinn felt better. With everything else broken around her, maybe then she wouldn't stand out, so much.

Only Judy didn't even so much as reprimand her. Seven years later, she insists it's better to have replaced it, that the old one was a reminder of a marriage gone sour, anyway.

These days, things are better. Quinn's acutely aware of her range of motion and moving around her mother's house is second nature. She still wonders what it would take to get a reaction out of Judy, though. She doubts, at this point, that even coming home pregnant would have any significant impact on their current relationship.

It's not that she wants to have conflict with her mother, she's just so tired of watching everyone tiptoe around her, as if they actually care about anything other than feeling guilty. The only person in her life she can truly count on to be straight with her is Sue, who's always made Quinn earn her position, one way or another.

Her mother, though... since the accident her mother's never treated her like anything but-

"Lucy?" Judy asks, craning around the edge of the doorway. "You never answered about the ice cream."

Quinn pushes her dinner plate aside. "Yeah," she says, resigned. "Sure."

Later that night, after the leftovers her mother insisted she take with her are put away in the mini-fridge, she stares at her laptop screen, thinking about her reply to Rachel's message. She has to send one because she always does. And, on the incredibly off chance that it was Rachel who called (it wasn't, because it just doesn't make sense and is statistically beyond improbable), Quinn needs to carry on with business as usual. Any change in the way she communicates with Rachel would be an acknowledgement of it and, therefore, a sign of weakness.

But it doesn't matter.

Because it wasn't her.

As she's deliberating the finer points of her life to include in her message, an email notification pops up in the corner of her screen. It's from Shelby.

Grateful for the distraction, Quinn quickly clicks over to her Gmail account.

_Quinn,_

_I'll be in Columbus on Sunday to meet a friend for brunch. Are you free to hang out with Beth for a couple of hours? Around 11 to 1?_

_- Shelby_

Quinn types out a response that's she's definitely available to spend time with Beth.

Of all the crap in her life, the moments she gets with her daughter are the high points. Like Quinn, Beth's a bookworm, which isn't too much of a shock, because Shelby's a teacher and has her own fairly impressive collection of books in her own home. Bookstores and libraries are the usual hangout spots for the two of them, but they've also been known to catch a movie or even a baseball game. As much as Shelby's tried to get Beth into the arts, it seems that team sports are more her speed, at least for know. Quinn's been to more soccer and little league games than she can count, in the last couple years. She's proud to support Beth in all of her endeavors, though she's in competition with Puck for who can collect the most team paraphernalia for each season.

This weekend, she thinks, they'll hit up the seasonal library book sale. She was planning to go, anyway, to pick some things out for both herself and Beth, but this will be even better.

There used to be a point in time when Quinn's Sunday mornings were sacred, when the time before early afternoon on the Lord's Day was dedicated to church and Sunday school. Not so much anymore.

It's not that she still doesn't have faith or that she's stopped believing in God. She just can't handle the way people look at her in church, the way people see her as some kind of miracle because she "should have died in that accident, but the Lord spared her." She has no interest in being any kind of a mascot or a testimony to the power of prayer.

She just wants to be Quinn Fabray, and even her own mother can't seem to give her that.


End file.
